


I'm Still On Your Side

by QueenBoo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-26 16:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: An exploration of the life Aziraphale and Crowley lead after successfully averting the Apocalypse.Tags and Rating may change as chapters update.





	1. Playing With Fyre

**Author's Note:**

> This work will be a collection of short stories and drabbles beginning after Aziraphale and Crowley board the bus to Oxford (London) and continuing on to explore the rest of their lives. 
> 
> There will be some plot arcs, others will be standalone explorations of what the ineffable husbands get up to, but all will take place in the same universe and wherever possible in chronological order! 
> 
> I have at least thirty chapters planned, there is, of course, the potential for more, and if you'd like to prompt me then you can come chat on Tumblr @hellfireandbookshops, or my main blog @Crazy-mad-insane 
> 
> Tags and Ratings will be added depending on chapter updates.

_You can stay at my place if you like._

Boarding the bus to Oxford (the bus that would drive to London anyway) was a silent affair. Crowley got on first, a brief gesture with his left hand ensuring that they would make it home tonight. Home being the demons residence, of course, no matter that Aziraphale hadn’t actually agreed to go there yet. If he was certain of anything right now it was that the angel shouldn’t be exposed to the ruin of his bookshop. Not tonight.

It had been horrific enough for Crowley. The aged rafters had crumbled to ash, the scent of burning paper surrounded the demon and choked in his lungs. All that uncomfortable heat licking at his skin, a dangerous reminder that whatever once stood there was now nothing more than dust in the wind. Fuel for a vicious flame. He’d called for Aziraphale but he had known the second he parked outside the angel was gone.

For the last six thousand years, Aziraphale has always been on his mental radar. An energy output ever-present in the back of his mind no matter where he went; it was how he managed to follow him across the globe al these years. It burned in him like the north star; leading him home.

There was nothing amidst the fire, though. Just an absence the likes of which he hadn’t felt since rising through the earth in the garden of Eden. An indicator that his best friend wasn’t in this realm anymore; discorporated or destroyed completely, he had no way of being certain. Oh, he’d hoped it was the former. That way he could just pop back down again with another body, surely. But who was to say the archangels hadn’t intervened and put a stop to whatever relationship they had? Crowley had been openly pleading with him in the street just an hour beforehand and hellfire would do a slap up job of eradicating an angel and his shop.

Crowley wasn’t entirely certain even he’d be able to stomach looking at the carcass of his friend’s home right now, not after grief like that.

So they’d go to the flat.

He took the seat beside the window, staring out at the quaint little village lit up in the night. It looked sickeningly _nice_. The kind of thing you’d put on a postcard to your nan. To think the world almost ended here today, in picturesque rural England. Oh the hidden dangers of a beautiful thing, much like an angel brandishing a flaming sword he supposed.

So busy waxing poetry about some scenery, and wasn’t that embarrassing for a being from hell, he hadn’t noticed the angel slide comfortably into the seat next to him. It was a little surprising, to say the least. Throughout the millennia, sitting together involved a fair amount of space between them. Crowley used to joke about leaving room for the holy ghost, but close quarters had simply never been worth the risk to them. Being caught talking was one thing, being caught cuddled together like illicit lovers was something else entirely. So park benches found the demon sprawled on one side and Aziraphale propped stiffly on the other. Any time they met at alternative Rendezvous point number 2; the number nineteen bus, Crowley would sit in the always conveniently absent seats directly behind his friend. Inconspicuous may not be their middle name, but at least they made something of an effort.

Pressed side by side with their shoulders brushing was different.

Though if either of them were being perfectly honest; everything was different now. Reality as they knew it was rewritten; or at least… He thought. Even Crowley couldn't be entirely certain what had happened on that airfield today with little Adam Young.

The bus pulls away and Crowley resolves to leave that train of thought behind. It’s going to take more than their journey’s length home to properly wrap their heads around it. Instead, he takes a large mouthful from their open bottle and wordlessly offers it to his companion.

“I don’t think we should really drink here.” The angel uttered in hushed tones, ever wary of the opinions of onlookers. Despite his protests, though, he does take the bottle into his own hand.

There was barely any passengers at this hour, Crowley knew, having cast a glance around the vehicle as soon as he’d boarded. A young woman near the front, headphones firmly in place and eyes drooping shut. A couple of seats behind them, there sat two young men both absorbed with their phones, uncaring of the world around them. Finally, at the back, a rather run down looking businessman skimming a broadsheet newspaper. Unlikely any of them would give the two eccentric gentlemen at the front a second glance. “I don’t think anyone cares, angel.”

Regardless, Aziraphale insisted, “I do.”

He was clinging to the bottle like an infant might cling to a safety blanket, but he was making no move to actually drink from it. The demon sighed deeply. “Suit yourself.”

Neither of them spoke for some time following that. Many people might assume that being friends for roughly six thousand years would leave very little to talk about, these people would be wrong. Crowley had long since mastered reading Aziraphale like one of his books, and he wouldn’t be dim enough to imagine the angel couldn’t do the same. They understood each other almost frighteningly well. Thus, the silence itself was practically a conversation.

The press of Aziraphale’s shoulder against his own was an act of showing comfort as much as it was the other seeking it for himself. Actual physical contact between them, at least in Crowley's opinion, was always a signifier of something consequential. Whether that be a handshake declaring an arrangement, or the brush of their fingers when they exchanged items (an incident involving Nazi spies and a church sprang to mind). This felt like it was much the same.

Rather than just innocently brushing, Aziraphale was gradually letting his weight come to rest against the demons side; and though he was loathed to admit it, Crowley was doing the same. Very soon they’d be propping each other up in a display of mutual reassurance. It enveloped him in something rather soothing.

_Flashes of love_ , he remembered Aziraphale describing once on the drive back from Tadfield.

At the time Crowley had brushed him off, declared the notion ridiculous. That was more because of his irritation at having found no leads than it was the lack of understanding. He was not a being of love, but he certainly knew what it felt like. That energy on his radar was what it felt like. Like sinking into a hot bath. The waves of it washing over him in a cascade of warmth, circling his bones and settling in the pit of his stomach. Filling him up until he felt like he was glowing with it. That love he understood; he’d been feeling it since Eden, and it was only identifiable to him as _Aziraphale_.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

It took an embarrassingly long moment for Crowley to bring himself out of his thought process and register the angel's words. Luckily for him, staring off into the distance in broody silence was something of a signature behaviour, and as such raised no query from the other when it took several seconds of just staring at him to form a response.

“That depends entirely on what you’re referring to. I said a lot of things.” Was what he settled on.

Amused but unwilling to admit as such, Aziraphale narrowed his eyes just briefly; a fleeting smile gracing his features before it was gone again. “You said I could stay with you tonight.”

Crowley continued to stare, dumbfounded. “Of course I meant it, why wouldn’t I mean it?”

The angel had no particular response to that; a minute shake of his head that Crowley would have missed had he blinked, and choosing to forgo his earlier shame by bringing the bottle they’d been sharing to his mouth. There was a hefty swallow of alcohol.

Worst of all his angel’s usual warmth is buzzing beside him; it almost makes the demon uncomfortable to sit next to. The only reasonable comparison is a live wire. It’s something volatile and dangerous like it wasn’t moments ago, as if the angel was trying to forcibly keep something under control and failing.

Crowley hadn’t the faintest clue how to interpret this.

“Angel, I meant it,” Seemed a good place to start as any. It worked in some small way; Aziraphale turned his head enough to meet his gaze, those impossibly wide eyes making an appearance as he hung on Crowley’s every word. Damn those eyes. “I’m not going to leave you out on your ear, am I?”

Crowley wasn’t going to leave him _at all_. That much should be painfully evident if the two failed attempts at abandoning earth were anything to go by. Going anywhere without the angel just wasn’t an option for him anymore. Probably hasn’t been for about a thousand years.

Yet Aziraphale still looked so _lost._ He’d always had such an expressive face; he could tell more stories than his bookshop could hold with the things that face could do. Currently, his eyes were glistening, brow softly furrowed, cheeks dusted pink, lips parted on words that aren't likely to be spoken. Crowley knows that face will be the end of him one day.

“I’ve got a few bottles of 2009 Essence Bordeaux that I’ve been saving for a special occasion,” He offers, gently. “Averting the end of the world seems appropriate, don’t you think.”

The atmosphere around them begins to feel less dangerously electric and more like a mildly concerning fizzle.

“You’ve never offered that before.” The angel says suspiciously.

“I’ve been ageing it.” One shoulder lifts a little in a half shrug. “I’m sure a decade will suffice.”

“You said that about the Roussanne,” The demon groaned and turned his gaze away at the stark reminder of that process gone wrong. “and a decade was in fact far too long.”

“You still drank it.”

“It would have been a shame to waste it, really.” The sigh Aziraphale gives is fonder than he likely intended it to be.

They share a smirk and it feels like something all their own, secretive and special. On Crowley’s mental radar, everything settles back to normal with a wash of warm water over his very being. Whatever was troubling his angel seemed to be on the back burner for now.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

It’s almost completely inaudible. The demon turns his head to catch it and instead finds himself eye to eye with his best friend. The way he’s staring at him with such _wonder_ makes Crowley glad his heart is entirely decoration; otherwise, it would be thumping in his chest like a bass drum. The gratitude clearly wasn’t just about tonight, he could understand that much, it was all-encompassing gratitude.

Not just _thank you for letting me stay the nigh_ t, but rather, _thank you for staying by my side all this time_.

He wanted to reply that there wasn’t anywhere in any universe he’d rather be, but admitting such things out loud weren’t becoming of a demon. Nor were they becoming of Crowley, honestly, who still flinched when he was called _nice_. So the only appropriate response seemed to be to demonstrate this point non-verbally. Specifically by slouching in his seat and leaning his weight against his friends side a little more, a slow grin adorning his features.

Aziraphale huffed a delicate laugh and rolled his eyes at the behaviour, likely not expecting a response any other way. The angel didn’t stop there, however, those perfectly manicured fingers reaching across to brush against the back of the hand lain in Crowley’s lap. The confident nature of the action was lost about halfway through, Aziraphale looking as if his limbs had acted of their own accord rather than his instruction and he was unsure where to go from here. Between them, the temperature starts to feel a little humid.

Crowley, not one for half measures, decided to aid his friend in his time of need. He flipped his hand over and entwined their fingers without a second thought.

There was something to be said about his role in this relationship, if it had an official title it would likely be something along the lines of ‘ _Here to Finish What Aziraphale Starts_ ’. His job description was to pull the other out of near-death situations at the last second, give him a gentle push into beneficial decisions; and as of this moment assist him in instigating the affection he clearly wanted but wasn’t quite ready to ask for. Not that he had ever been anything but glad to hold this particular role. Crowley was, and always had been, unashamedly open about everything. At least in his opinion, he had been.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had spent six thousand years denouncing their friendship in one breath and then asking him for lunch the next. It only made sense to the demon that the other was a bit skittish about hand holding.

Neither of them said anything about it- Obviously. But it was the most relaxed either of them been since arriving in Tadfield. The air around them settled back into something familiar.

For right now at least, Crowley was content to believe that this could be their eternity.

~O~

When the driver drops them off, Aziraphale thanks the man, and with a little thought ensures that when he next checks his pockets he will find a healthy wad of cash stuffed in there. A tip really. After all, he drove all this way.

As he steps off the bus though, Crowley has a knowing smirk on his face, to which the angel mutters, “Oh do shut up. It was the least we could do.”

The demon shakes his head, but Aziraphale knows that there is warmth in the gaze hidden behind those glasses. He can tell. He can always tell where Crowley is concerned. “Shall we?”

Crowley inclines his head obligingly, turns to the building and opens the door with a snap of his fingers. The hour is late enough that neither of them are particularly worried about being noticed for frivolous miracle use. At least not by humans; Aziraphale cast a nervous glance upwards. Crowley motions with one arm for Aziraphale to enter first, and the Angel has to shake himself free of the feeling of being watched before he moves to step through the doorway.

If Crowley notices the hesitation he doesn't say so.

“I don’t think I’ve been to this one yet.” Aziraphale muses out loud, admiring the well-kept entryway they have walked into.

Crowley changes residencies almost as much as he changes hairstyles, unlike the angel who had settled in his bookshop some centuries ago and not moved since. Crowley may have chosen London but he did not stick to one spot. He claimed it had a lot to do with neighbours, who eventually would click on to the unaging nature of their fellow building mate; Aziraphale would rather bet that the demon disliked being stuck in one space too long. He liked the freedom to be wherever he liked whenever he liked… he doubted it was ever an option in hell; moving house. Moving at all might have been quite a limited option if what he'd heard about the place was true. Crowded and oppressive.

Heaven had rather been the opposite. It was comprised of miles upon miles of pristine open space, travelling between one place and another was an energy consuming feat. He was dizzy just thinking about it. It was ironic how all that space could make you feel like you were suffocating.

Crowley shuts the door behind them with a thoughtful sigh, lips twisting in his own recollection of his time in this residence. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

The flat was purchased back in the 1970s if he remembered correctly. Aziraphale just hadn’t found the time nor reasoning to ever pop by for a visit, not when they tended to do their meeting in inconspicuous public places or the angel's shop.

Crowley’s residence was on the second floor and they climbed the stairs in silence. That had been happening a lot tonight, he noticed, the silence between them. Too much to say, he supposed. Too much to say and not nearly enough words to say it. Crowley had always been a demon of action, not words, anyway.

Entering Crowley’s home felt different from what he’d imagined.

The last place Crowley lived that Aziraphale had actually been to, had been in Waterloo in 1951. It was a cramped, damp little thing residing above a family run post office. They rented it out because it wasn’t big enough for the children; Aziraphale remembers chatting with the young father in the shop once. Crowley hated it there, but it had been a rather impulsive decision to move on the part of the demon and an easy application process with very little questions asked.

He’d felt how uncomfortable his friend was even in the few times he’d visited, he knew it. It stuck to the walls like a bad smell, seeped into the carpet, and clung to Crowley himself in a distasteful cocktail of bad sensations for the angel. Aziraphale couldn’t just sense the good, he could sense the bad too, and that flat had been riddled with it.

This place, however, there was joy here. _Love. Freedom. Calm._

It was sparsely decorated, and Aziraphale noted that Crowley’s decorating style very much erred on the side of minimalist. There wasn’t a hint of the cosy sofas and armchairs the angel adorned his own home with; instead, there was a rather dramatic looking desk and chair. He took note of the large television hung on the wall with a roll of his eyes, and then further found himself huffing at the Da Vinci work that hung on the far wall.

Of course, Crowley kept _that_ Da Vinci sketch on display for the world to see.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Crowley said, though, the way he darted his gaze around the room indicated he very much knows there were little places that ‘comfortable’ could apply. “Oh and watch out for the puddle.”

The angel didn’t get an exact specification of what puddle, in particular, he was supposed to be looking out for as the demon spun on his heel and exited the room, but in the end decided he could quite happily exist the rest of eternity without knowing.

In the absence of comfortable, the angel found himself curious instead. _Awkward_ wasn’t a word he would typically apply to himself when he was around the other being. Reserved, perhaps, yes. The journey home spent holding hands was an apt demonstration of that; Aziraphale knew what he wanted to achieve out of his interactions, he just occasionally struggled to get over the hurdle of… well. Of _upstairs_. Right now, however, loitering in his best friends flat, he did very much feel awkward.

There was an undeniable feeling that they were on the cusp of something new. Something that neither Heaven nor Hell could touch.

The Mona Lisa was smirking knowingly at him from across the room. It had followed Crowley through the ages, Aziraphale remembers spotting it two or three times in various residencies. At first, he’d been intrigued as to how the demon had gotten his hands on an original sketch. It wasn’t until centuries later when he’d found the courage to ask and got nothing more than that serpentine smirk and a muttered _‘He was an old friend’_. An old friend indeed. Ever since he’d only been able to frown at the thing. Heavens knows why a sketch of all things puts his stomach in a knot. Now the lines and curves seemed to bore into his soul; her eyes staring into his very existence and inspiring a sense of self-examination he wasn’t quite ready to tackle.

_You know why it bothers you_ , her smile said, _you just don’t want to consider the idea_. Aziraphale was inclined to agree.

As a form of distraction, he took to investigating his surroundings a little more, skimming through abandoned pages depicting faraway Nebulas. Alpha Centauri gleaned at him from the gloss pages, a reminder of an alternate ending to this day. Besides that, there was a familiar tartan flask, uncapped and empty. His chest suddenly felt tight.

“Oh, Crowley,” He muttered aloud, gaze frantically darting about the room. “What have you done?”

The warning to avoid the puddle suddenly had much more sinister implications… But there was no visible mess anywhere. No leftover demon. No tattered clothes. Nothing. Aziraphale couldn't even feel the holy water anymore, so whatever had happened all evidence of it had been thoroughly removed from existence.

_Just be thankful it wasn’t Crowley._

At least the demons promise of it being for insurance had proved to be true.

Aziraphale becomes aware of a presence hovering in the doorway just as he scoops up the now empty flask. He doesn’t need to look up to know who it is, mostly because logic would dictate the only person it could be was the person he came home with. But also because there’s a distinct feeling that comes over him whenever Crowley is in proximity; a content and fuzzy sensation.

“Last we spoke you said the forces of hell had figured out it was you.” It was a statement of fact and yet the angel still found his voice lilting in a question.

Crowley didn’t respond, but then, he didn’t really have to.

“What happened?” It was a remarkably stupid question. Aziraphale was already putting the pieces together on that one. He made a second attempt. “Who were they?”

“Hastur and Ligur came for me,” Crowley answered delicately. “I… The holy water only got Ligur.”

As if he was suddenly reminded to do so, the demon glanced around the floor. He was no doubt looking for the same puddle Aziraphale had been expecting to find earlier. Upon finding nothing, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That antichrist boy wasn’t half bad.”

There’s a cocktail of emotions mixing in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. He is primarily relieved that Crowley made it out alive and unharmed, he was able to outsmart two other demons, which inspires something akin to pride. But there is a healthy dose of fear overshadowing all of that; Crowley killed another demon. Hell will not look kindly on an act like that. If… _When_ they make retaliation they will do it with that in mind.

Crowley must sense this downturn in the mood because he hands an uncorked bottle of red wine to the angel. Aziraphale unashamedly takes several large gulps.

“We’ll figure it out.” The words are a promise, and Aziraphale believes him.

They’ve managed to find their way out of all sorts of trouble over the years, surely they could do it again? Granted this was a rather large spot of trouble, but this was the first time in six thousand years they had come together in such a way. Having cut ties from their respective sides and loudly proclaiming their only loyalties lay with each other, they made each other stronger. They’d figure it out.

Crowley had miracled his own open bottle and the pair clinked them together in a crude sort of toast. What they were toasting was another matter entirely.

“Do you still have that prophecy?” The demon asked a moment later, leaning heavily against the edge of the desk.

“I believe so.” Aziraphale fished around in his coat pocket for the small scrap of paper, then set on the dark surface between them. Both beings scanned the words silently; the only sound the occasional gulp of wine.

Crowley speaks first. “What if she meant the shop. _‘Playing with fyre_ ’.”

“It’s possible,” Aziraphale tries not to wince at the reminder of that particular incident. “Though, I wouldn’t put it past Agnes to know exactly when I’d find it... _After_ the burning.” He stares down at the words with a thoughtful frown. “Besides, I’m not sure what our faces could have done to prevent that.”

“Your jaunt into the realm of possession maybe.” Crowley teased lightly, and when Aziraphale looked up he was greeted with those bright yellow eyes, softened at the edges with amusement. “You certainly had someone else's face for a while.”

“It was necessary... and a little uncomfortable.” Aziraphale gives him a look that he hopes is scornful. “I’ve no idea how your lot used to do it all the time. Dreadfully invasive.”

“Wasn’t so bad when you got to do it for fun reasons.” Crowley mused. “Mind you, sometimes it was just as fun with other demons.”

“Other demons?”

“Yeah, there was this thing we could do- _oh_!”

The exclamation gave Aziraphale pause. “Oh? Oh, what?”

“Choosing faces!” Crowley was suddenly giddy in a way Aziraphale had grown used to being associated with devious plans and talk of temptations. So naturally, he was very concerned about whatever was about to come out of his friend’s mouth.

Crowley reached for his hand with little thought, and perhaps even more concerning was the easy way Aziraphale threaded their fingers together. The demon did not explain, instead, he began leading a confused angel towards the bedroom. “Angel, I know what we have to do.”

And just like he had for six thousand years, Aziraphale trusted him.

~O~

There’s not a lot to do in hell, especially not for someone like Crowley.

He wasn’t really cut out for the monotony of it. Torture a soul here, fill in paperwork there, generally get up to no good all hours of the day. It was a vicious cycle of evil that he never felt he belonged to. Other demons, they lived and breathed Hell, their very substance was dipped in fury and disdain for the paradise they were kicked out of. Crowley was angry about it too, sure, who wouldn’t be; but he also didn’t feel the need to take it out on those around him. Whatever poor souls dredged down into the inferno weren’t at fault for his fall. In the end, the only person he could blame for that was himself.

And he did. _Daily._

That being said; if the day in day out drone of negativity was to be his eternity, the least he could do was to make it a little interesting. Which is what lead them here.

“I’m sorry, we have to do what?”

Aziraphale was managing to look equal parts concerned and intrigued, hovering anxiously in the doorway to Crowley’s bedroom as the demon himself cleared space on the floor by tossing a plush rug to the side. The angel was cradling his bottle of wine Crowley had handed him earlier, looking for all the world like he might require more than just one bottle to go through with this. Luckily, the demon had at least six in his pantry should the need become dire.

“It’s easier than it sounds,” Crowley promised, shedding his jacket and tossing it carelessly on the bed; his own bottle was set aside for the sake of explaining the task. “Think of it as a complicated glamour.”

“Glamours are _already_ complicated, Crowley.” Aziraphale still looked unconvinced, though he started to take some hesitant steps towards the other.

_“We have to try.”_

Now, Crowley is about as likely to admit to the desperation in his voice as pigs are to fly; but just because he wouldn’t admit to it doesn’t mean it wasn’t painfully obvious to his friend. The angel gazing at him with barely concealed sorrow in his gaze. The hard set of his mouth spoke of determination, however, and after a moment more consideration Aziraphale let his shoulders sag. He sighed, giving in. “Alright, explain it to me again.”

Victorious, the demon beamed and beckoned his friend closer. “Rather than possess someone’s body, there is a way to just, sort of… wear their face.”

“Sounds horrific.” Aziraphale took a swig from the bottle he held.

“Horrific _and_ fun, in the right circumstances.” There was a distinctly unimpressed look in response to that comment. “I know I can do it, I’m just not sure if angels can. But I didn’t think your lot could possess innocent mediums either.”

It had been a few thousand years since the last time Crowley had attempted anything like this, and the first time he’d attempted it with anything of value at stake. Back then it was a way to alleviate boredom. Put on another demon’s face and wreak some havoc. Playing pranks on Hastur looking like Dagon was entertainment for three centuries. On a rare occasion, there’d be some bargaining going on; the typical _scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours_ affair. Wear my face and do me a favour. Crowley rarely said no, wasn’t it in a demons best interest to have a few favours owed to him here and there?

Not that any of that mattered now. No amount of demonic favour was going to get him out of this mess, nor was it going to protect Aziraphale; and in the end, that was where it mattered most.

“Right. Come here.” He stuck one hand out to the angel, watching as the conflicted expression crossed his face.

Naturally, Aziraphale was hesitant, and the demon was trying his best to be understanding.

Unlike Crowley, who had lost faith in The Plan, Heaven, Hell, and anyone that wasn’t the two of them, around a thousand years ago; Aziraphale only turned his back on what he believed in mere hours ago. Crowley remembered personally how hard _that_ was to come to terms with. The confusion and anger and sadness. The unrelenting feeling of being an outcast.

“What have we got left to lose?”

It was a harshly genuine question. They had saved the world today, despite the wishes of their respective bosses. They had lost most of what was dear to them in the process; Aziraphale’s bookshop sat in ashes in the middle of Soho, Crowley’s car was nothing more than twisted melted metal.

The only thing they had left was-

“Each other.” The angel’s usually warm energy output starts to turn cold at the edges. It feels like ice against Crowley’s skin.

“Which is exactly why we need to do this.” Crowley extends his hand again, a plea.

If they didn’t; the forces of Heaven and Hell would come after them anyway and what could they do _but lose each other._ At least this way they stood a chance.

He meets eyes with Aziraphale, and without his glasses, the action feels an awful lot like baring his soul. His jaw is set in stubborn determination. “Agnes left us that prophecy for a reason. We have to do this together.”

“And what if we fail, Crowley!” Aziraphale demands. The ice aura snaps like a dam, pushing relentlessly against Crowley’s insides like a physical weight of worry. “If this works. If we succeed in sharing faces, they may still know what we’ve done. Do you have any idea what Angels would do to you if given the opportunity?”

A frustrated growl rumbles in the base of the demon's throat. “I’ve got a fair idea, yeah.”

Crowley’s faux casual tone is apparently enough to make the angel scoff, but it isn’t the usual playful scoff Crowley is so used to, this is about as annoyed as he’s ever heard the angel. Aziraphale’s concern is overtaking his logic and it’s evident in the heavy frown he’s wearing. That usually cheery gaze is darting over the demons form with barely contained fear.

That is, until he takes two firm strides forwards into Aziraphale’s space, staring into those angelic blue eyes with as much stern resilience he could muster. The expression then morphs into something gentler. “No one will know. We’ve spent six thousand years in each other’s company; that’s more than enough to pretend to be one another don’t you think?”

The proximity has worked wonders on Aziraphale's output. Rather than a bitingly cold pressure, it began to feel more like being wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Not unpleasant, but rather a way to go before it’s back to its usual heat again.

Crowley ever so subtly reaches out with his own consciousness, something he’s done before if actively searching for the Angel; the only time he’d failed had been amongst the flames of A.Z Fell and Co. He hopes the non-physical reassurance will help. The ethereal reminder that Crowley isn’t going anywhere. He could always plausibly deny he had anything to do with it later; energies of celestial beings tended to have minds of their own after all.

He sees the moment Aziraphale must sense it, his body loses some of its tension.

They had been doing this dance for millennia. Crowley had an idea, The Arrangement, raise the Antichrist together, stop Armageddon; and the angel always said no. He worried too much. They’d bicker about it but Aziraphale always agreed. He would agree this time, Crowley just needed to find the right temptation, had to frame it the right way.

His fingers itched with the need to reach out and touch the other. Press a palm against his cheek or grip his shoulders; hold him in any capacity, provide a physical reassurance along with the ethereal. But he couldn’t bring himself to, not while this negotiation was unresolved.

“Aziraphale, if we pull this off we'll be free of it all.” He says it like he is swearing an oath to him. As if he has the authority to hand him an eternity of freedom from the bureaucracy of heaven, and he isn't sure if it's the use of his name in place of the usually more casual _angel_ , but Aziraphale is gaping at him. “They will come for us. You _know_ they will.”

“I know.” Aziraphale is defeated to admit it, his gaze dropping to the floor in shame, having long believed Heaven was above such barbaric practices.

Now he understands.

They are both labelled traitors, they’re both on a death sentence. On their own side now more than ever because they chose this when they stood by Adam’s side on that airbase. They chose each other.

Unable to resist any longer, Crowley’s fingers find the angel’s wrist of his free hand. He circles it gently, anchoring himself as much as he is his friend. After all, it’s a hell of a thing for a demon to be suggesting something so selfless and the longer he can go without examining that too closely the better. Acts of kindness weren’t supposed to be in his nature and yet they were coming to him as easily as breathing where the angel was concerned.

“If we do this there is a chance we will still die, you know this?” Aziraphale asks quietly.

“I do.” He nods his head minutely. Then, he breathes deeply and admits with a tremor in his voice, “I already lost you once today, angel.”

The weight of that statement is not wasted on either of them. Crowley’s grip tightens on Aziraphale’s wrist. He is trembling like one of his plants, though his expression is schooled into one of calm confidence. Aziraphale’s gaze darts up again, brow furrowing and mouth opening like he wants to say something. Wants to say what has been building between them for so long. No words come. Their separate energies usually used as a radar for one another heats up again, suddenly begins to vibrate against each other. A bungee cord pulled taut between them ready to snap.

“Besides. I always assumed my demise would be keeping you out of trouble.” It's an attempt at making light of the potentially dangerous situation they're going to walk into if this works. Crowley into Heaven and Aziraphale into Hell.

But somehow it comes across as less than a joke and more of an oath.

It’s been said before, but only now has the truth of it became clear for them both.

_We’re on our side, and that's worth all the risk in the world._

Aziraphale’s hand turns over in the demon's grip; their fingers entwine wordlessly.

“Show me what to do.” He says.

Crowley does.


	2. Choosing Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that swapping bodies was not an easy process. It certainly wasn't an exercise that went without copious amounts of mockery either. Aziraphale and Crowley do their best to get ready for infiltrating head offices, and maybe try to come to terms with their future... maybe.

Let it be known that swapping bodies was not an easy process. 

They had been at this for a considerable time and had made no solid progress, not even a hint of each other was transferring. There was a brief moment in which Crowley claimed to have witnessed blonde hair turn red, but Aziraphale rather suspected it was an attempt at humouring him. 

Frustration had led to the two bottles of red wine (one each) becoming three, four, and then eventually five. The now-empty vessels lay around them in a cheap depiction of a summoning circle. Angel and Demon sat cross-legged opposite one another on the floor of Crowley’s bedroom in the middle of said circle. Aziraphale’s hands lay wrapped in Crowley’s.

“You need to focus.” Crowley sighs, opening his previously closed eyes to look pointedly at him. 

He can’t help himself but narrow his gaze. “I _am_ focussing.” 

Truthfully, Aziraphale wasn’t completely convinced this was going to work. Crowley had made a decent argument, and the suggestion of it did make sense with the prophecy left behind for them. It just _felt impossible_. In the same way, one's gut might feel that taking a particularly darkened route home was a bad idea, Aziraphale's very being was indicating that this plan, this _prophecy,_ was too good to be true.

“You’re focussing on how much you expect this to fail.” The demon chastised, it was as if he had reached in Aziraphale’s mind and plucked the doubt from him directly. 

Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. He takes in the room around him rather than meet his friends gaze and admit that he’s right. He trusts Crowley to know what they’re doing, of course he does. Does that stop him fretting over his friend's safety during this venture? Absolutely not. 

No matter what kind of emotional walls Aziraphale had erected between himself and the demon Crowley for the past six thousand years, nothing ever stopped him despairing for his very existence. Even in the Garden, to some extent. He looked upon a creature that, for all his understanding at the time, embodied the evil to his good and rather than smite the poor thing like his kind were supposed to do, he sheltered him from the rain. The trend continued throughout their acquaintance of course. The likes of the arrangement, daring rescues, lunches and dinners. It always led to the same anxiety. 

_What will they do to him if we are caught?_

Swapping bodies was certainly a new plan, but the apprehension was as old as they were. 

It comes hand in hand with an existence in the realm of the divine. In Aziraphale’s experience, one he was only now coming to terms with, being an angel did not make you automatically _good._ Once upon a time, such a thought would have him begging forgiveness from The Almighty Herself. But lessons learned in the last days leading up to the apocalypse meant now, he instead thinks it should perhaps be a certain set of archangels seeking forgiveness. Because as demonstrated quite thoroughly, even Heaven is not afraid to have blood on its hands. 

Aziraphale hadn't lied when he had proclaimed he had never actually killed anything before; if he could help it he would avoid stepping on ants. But there had been much he had turned a blind eye to for his faith in the Great Plan. History is a tangled web of death and destruction and truly, who knows which side is responsible for which thread anymore? 

It is this newfound truth that troubles him. It had been ingrained into him to believe that Gabriel and his cohort were always watching. Smart enough to see through any plot they may come up with and subsequently creative enough to punish you for said plotting. Logically he knows this to be untrue. The demon opposite him is a bold reminder that Heaven does not, in fact, know everything; or this wouldn’t have been allowed to blossom into whatever it was. 

This does not stop his imagination providing him with every which way those _angels_ would hurt Crowley if given the chance. 

“Angel?” 

Aziraphale turns his head from where he'd been frowning thoughtfully at a dusty pile of books on the nightstand, back to the other. Crowley is looking at him with a creased brow, his usually piercing gaze is something much softer than he has any right to look. 

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.” 

The brow creases further. “I asked if you wanted to try again.”

His answer should be, without hesitation, yes. Yes, let us keep trying to make our _only_ chance of survival work. But Aziraphale still finds himself shaking his head. “Why don’t we just… Give it a moment.” 

There’s a reluctance about it but Crowley agrees anyway, and Aziraphale feels like there’s a pressure relieved from his chest.

Calling it a glamour was both true and inherently underselling it in the same breath. Ethereal and Occult beings were well versed in having to use minor miracles to adjust their physical forms, insofar as living in a human-shaped body requires a lot of fine-tuning to blend in. Usually, these modifications were trivial matters that required little output energy-wise, Crowley’s serpentine eyes were an example of such glamour. The demon could quite easily will them into something resembling a human iris, circular with the whites of his eyes visible lending to a more _mortal_ look, the colour was still that mesmerising yellow. 

Though should he lose focus they had a tendency to revert to their natural state and spillover; covering every inch of his eyes in dazzling gold. Aziraphale has only seen this happen a handful of times; when he is relaxed, drunk in the back room of the bookshop with a flush on his cheeks and his sibilants extending. Alternatively, he has seen the demon in instances of great concentration, any drive that could be keeping his eyes under control forgot in place of a more pressing matter. 

What they were attempting was something a tad more complicated than simply presenting a semi-human iris. 

It was taking a monumental amount of effort, and something that could only be described as a unification of their celestial powers, to transform themselves into visual representations of the other. Combining their energies was an entirely new experience for them both. It felt as thrilling as it did exhausting. 

And in some ways, incredibly _right._

Beings of none human origin often presented to the angel as light and sensation, it was a rather handy way of being able to sense when anyone besides Crowley and himself were on this plain. Other angels, on sight, radiated divinity. They appeared to glow, but they also felt _sharp_. Demons did not glow, instead, they clouded. They felt hollow and empty. 

Except for Crowley. Crowley neither glowed nor clouded, but he was radiant. He didn't feel anything except _w_ _arm._ A little fuzzy like static in his very soul. He felt like the tranquillity of a garden long ago. He shone like the break of the sun after the very first rain, fresh and full of hope. 

But this. When they pressed their palms together and reach out with that mangled sense of power that hides inside a flimsy human body, Aziraphale thinks he might understand how the universe came to be. It feels like they have the potential to birth a whole new galaxy into existence. He could close his eyes and see the stars like they were spun into creation in this very room, just for him. 

He wonders if Crowley feels it too. 

He wonders if it's supposed to feel like this, and if so, how many others have basked in his friend's world-building aura and not appreciated the beauty of it. 

“You used to do this often, in Hell?” The question is out there before he can stop it, and there is nothing to do but hope the answer eases the tang of jealousy on his tongue. 

Crowley cocks his head to the side and hums thoughtfully. “A bit, yeah.”

Aziraphale isn’t sure if this information comforts him or adds to an already daunting sense of expectation to get it right since he is yet to achieve what other demons have done readily. “And you find it easy?” 

“ _Easy_ is relative.” The demon points out, which, all things considered, is a valid point. That doesn’t stop him frowning at Crowley for making sense. “But for the sake of your pride, no I don’t.” 

_That_ does comfort him. 

“It’s like… trying to put on clothes that don’t fit you. Getting into them is a bit of a hassle, and they don’t _feel_ very flattering, but once they’re on you find it’s not as bad as you thought.” The analogy is crude, but the angel appreciates Crowley’s attempt at encouragement regardless. 

It was also a pretty accurate description of what it actually felt like. No matter how hard they pushed or pulled, it simply wouldn’t happen. Their forces seemed more than happy to frolic about in one another without actually transferring anything. 

“And if you’re still worrying about whether or not they’ll notice,” Aziraphale was, but he hadn't planned on actually mentioning it. Crowley just couldn't leave well enough alone. “Angel, you may be of the same stock but you aren’t one of them anymore.” 

The usual retort of _I don’t know what you mean_ started in the base of his throat, but it never got the chance to form into words. Mostly because the look Crowley gave him spoke of six millennia slipping further and further away from Heaven and further into humanity, but there was also the fact that he didn’t much feel like denying it any longer. 

“They won’t figure it out because they don’t know who _you_ _are_ anyway.” Crowley insisted, his tone cutting with disapproval. “Their experience of you has been a loyal, if not slightly eccentric, soldier in their army of holier than thou-” He stops himself before spilling some words that aren’t appropriate for the present company and takes a calming breath. “… And you’re so much more than that. You always have been.”

Aziraphale finds himself mostly speechless at this admission. Mostly, because while no certain words are forthcoming, there is an embarrassingly meek, “Oh.” 

And in the silence that follows is an expression he has been seeing on Crowley’s face as long as he can remember, only now he’s starting to understand what it means. That half-smile Aziraphale was so used to seeing could usually rival that of the Mona Lisa in terms of its ambiguity, and yet in this instance, it beamed only affection. 

The typical thing to do in a situation such as this would be to perhaps talk about whatever might be going on between them. However, neither one of them has ever claimed to be typical in any sense of the word. 

So just as Aziraphale opens his mouth to perhaps form a sentence; Crowley cuts in. 

“Come on, angel.” The demon holds both his hands out, no room for argument. “Let’s try again.” 

~O~

Aziraphale still reverberates with nervous energy, but the acidic bite of fear Crowley could taste in the back of his throat is more or less eradicated. There is something entirely else in its place now, licking at his insides; it’s feral and dangerous and the demon has only ever felt anything like it twice before. Once on an airbase in Tadfield while his angel clutched a flaming sword, and the other in a time long since forgotten to their extensive histories. It’s a thorough reminder that the creature opposite him was a warrior of Her Grace, born in the heart of an exploding star and equipped to do whatever necessary in the name of the Lord. 

Aziraphale is a typically non-violent force, but when backed into a corner with no other option left, he _will_ fight dirty. 

Crowley is more than happy to be the weapon of choice in this battle. 

Aziraphale lays his hands in the demons waiting ones, and it’s like a switch is flipped between them. Suddenly their energy outputs are singing together in harmony the likes of heaven could only dream of. They’d gotten this far earlier, Crowley’s occult aura mixing with the spirit of another being of the same original stock like a supernatural cocktail; but rather than just bleeding together this felt like an exchange. 

In all the times Crowley may have done this before, it has never occurred in this fashion. Typically the process is uncomfortable; an irritating sensation likened only to that of the prickly heat of a sunburn. But this, this was the kind of thrill he imagines drives humans to jump out of planes willingly. 

It was a rush. Dare he say euphoric. A tingling sensation began at their point of contact and spread outwards through his whole body, right to the tips of his toes. The air was forced from his chest as he slipped under, and he thanked _someone_ that he didn’t actually need to breathe otherwise he was sure he may have passed out. It felt like being submerged in water; for a second he wasn’t certain which way was up.

The analogy about clothes seems rather unfitting now that they have succeeded; slipping into the shape of Aziraphale was surprisingly easy. 

Distantly, he hears the angel gasp, but it isn’t in his usual timbre. It’s something rougher, something not made for heaven but produced from hell instead. 

His eyes spring open and he finds… himself. 

“Oh, that's… disorienting.” Crowley says, then immediately slaps a hand over his mouth because that wasn’t his voice. 

It worked. Oh, _Hell_ it worked. 

He watches as Aziraphale seems to come to the same conclusion; his glowing eyes have always been intimidating from this side of things, but even more so now that it’s the angel controlling the way they flit from the top of his frame to the bottom. 

“It worked!” His own voice intoned, and it was somehow more angelic for knowing who lay beneath it. 

“Of course it worked, I told you it would work.” Crowley admonishes, he feels as if he has to work extra hard to get his mouth around the syllables of his discontent. 

Aziraphale is grimacing as if he has tasted something foul. “Good lord, do I always sound like that?” 

“Yes.” 

“No, I think that’s your influence.” 

He is in fact, correct in that summation, Crowley can already hear the usually cut-glass edges of Aziraphale’s chosen tone softening at the corners due to the fact it’s the demon making use of the mouthpiece. 

“You’re doing it too!” He cries, rather than simply agree that the angel is correct. 

The small smile that graces the others face could only be described as whimsical. “I always thought you could do with being a bit more formal.” 

“Hell is going to notice if you go down there like that.” This time as he speaks he makes a conscious effort to emulate the dulcet tones he is so accustomed to. 

Aziraphale beams. “Oh, that’s much better!”

This was going to give him a headache. 

As if spurred by their success, Aziraphale is pushing himself to his feet and taking a few experimental steps around the room. He looks perfectly delighted and it makes something in Crowley ache. The smile he wears may physically be on Crowley’s face but it is all angel, it’s gentle and demure in ways he hadn’t known a demon's face could look. He wasn’t sure the swell of affection was appropriate given that it was technically himself he was staring at. 

Now that he’s had a moment to gather his senses, he gets to his own (or Aziraphale’s) feet. It reminds him heavily of the first time he walked on two legs after Eden, having spent almost all of his time in the garden in a more serpent-like form; it took a minute to get used to. It was always going to take a second to master driving a new shape after thousands of years using the same one. 

Aziraphale, it seemed, was having no such trouble. He rushed to the large mirror Crowley keeps in the corner of his room in order to peer at himself. He is dragging fingers through red hair and twisting this way and that as if expecting to find something amiss. “Incredible!” He remarks. 

Crowley sidles up beside himself. From an outside perspective, there would be nothing out of the ordinary with the image that is reflecting back at them.

He grins a grin too sinful for the angel's face. “Having fun?” 

“I’m not sure having fun is an appropriate response,” Aziraphale casts a half-smirk at him. “But I find I am, yes.” 

They share a laugh that holds the potential to cure the ills of the world. Truthfully, it is a sweet symphony to the demon; tugging on his heartstrings in a way little else ever could. He’d never admit it out loud, but privately he can appreciate the elegance in laughter. 

But of course the joy of the moment cannot linger, there is still the imminent threat of above and below to deal with. The laughter gradually stops and they find themselves just looking at one another in the reflection of the mirror. Holding their gaze, Crowley gives a minute nod of his head. He really isn’t certain if it comes across as reassuring as he intended it to be. 

“Let me look at you,” Aziraphale says eventually. Now sobered, he takes charge of advancing their plan. He steps back as if to inspect him, ready to deem him appropriate for infiltration. 

Let it be known that Crowley has never been particularly self-conscious, and it is probably especially ludicrous for anyone to feel shy when they are inhabiting the physical appearance of the very person who is looking at them. Inexplicably, there’s still a sense of exposure crawling over his skin when the angel looks at him. 

Under that, however, is the innate need to _impress_ him. 

He has spent an awful lot of time in the angel's company, and the vast majority of that time observing him. Crowley could pen a novel on the intricacies of the principality Aziraphale. He could, quite accurately, sketch a diagram of the angel's actuality but he is certain no one would understand it but him. Should they have the time, a demon would very much like to give an angel examples of every instance in which he has understood him better than Heaven ever would; perhaps in the form of a prayer. 

But they don’t have the time. So he shows him. 

It barely takes a thought to straighten his back; his hands joined in front of him, fingers linking together. Chin lifted just slightly to give the impression of confidence, but not enough to exude an inflated sense of self-worth. The icing on the cake is the intentionally coquettish smile he sends towards the angel in disguise. 

It is, after all, an artful rendition of how he sees his friend. 

For the most part, it’s a kind of flattered disbelief that's painted all over the others face. He almost expects the angel to pinch himself to check whether he is dreaming or not. 

Crowley is overcome with pride at a job well done until Aziraphale exclaims, “I do not smile like _that,_ Crowley.” 

Said smile only gets wider. “You _do_.” 

“Absolutely not, that’s…” Crowley didn’t even know his body _could_ blush and yet there is colour adorning his features right now. “That’s _your_ smile. Wiley and tempting. Mines much more-” 

“Holy?” 

“Crowley.” 

He held his hands up in mock surrender. Only a moment of silence passed between them before he added, a tease, “Are you at any point going to try _Wiley and_ _tempting_?” 

Aziraphale did not take it as a tease, however, he dropped his shoulders and cocked one hip to the side like he’d been doing it for millennia. Hands found their way into the front pockets of jeans with an air of offhandedness he had only witnessed on the angel a handful of times. The bastard even managed to pull off a perfectly seductive expression, had delicately lifted one eyebrow up in challenge, and quirked his lips. That coupled with the striking yellow of Crowley's natural eyes… 

He is certain this is the most confused he's ever felt insofar as Crowley is looking at his own face, and yet, the person wearing the face is managing to make it endlessly appealing. 

Is this a demonstration of how Aziraphale sees him? 

He's definitely not worried about his angel's ability to play him, he seems to know how to choreograph the demons appearance like an expert puppeteer. He is, however, worried about his own health; given that the heart in his chest hasn't beaten in a regular rhythm since standing up. 

Good thing he doesn't technically need it. 

It was one of the best-kept secrets on every plane of existence (second only to God’s plan, probably) that Aziraphale had a competitive streak about as wide as he was tall. The demon often took great pleasure in tempting it out; present the man a challenge and something was set alight inside him. He was taking this particular trial in his stride, it seemed, going as far as to wink at him. 

“Now you're just showing off.” Crowley finds himself muttering. 

“All the better for portraying you, my dear,” Aziraphale says warmly, the act dropping as fast as it was put in place.

The angel is gazing at him with a shy smile and Crowley is convinced that something is about to be said. Then, seemingly flustered, his eyes dart away quickly. He moves toward the black jacket earlier abandoned and starts to pull it on. “We should perhaps talk about where we go from here. Form a plan, of sorts.” 

“Right, of course.” Crowley agrees. “Good idea.” 

As if settling into the role he must play he uses one arm to indicate that Aziraphale could go ahead of him, and as he abides by the offer, Crowley hesitates behind. He takes a few unnecessary deep breaths, collects himself, and follows. 

~O~

There was a general consensus between the pair of them that different occasions call for different types of drinking. 

Wines were the go-to choice in most situations, though Crowley was preferential to a red and Aziraphale to a white, and they were always in agreement that several bottles were usually needed. However, should things take a little more of a dire turn, such as losing the antichrist and resigning oneself to the end of all things, then the pair kept a healthy stash of hard liquor around to take the edge off. 

So it was incredibly telling that Crowley fished out a bottle of scotch for them, mid-discussion, without prompting. 

The demon had been as excited as himself at the success of their body swap, even engaging in some light banter about each other's characteristics. But since they had started the conversation of where to go from here his mood had taken a downturn; considering what Heaven and Hell might do and deciding how they would act accordingly was taking its toll. 

“Hastur will no doubt be at the forefront of the crusade against me,” A glass was held out for him, Crowley continuing to speak aimlessly as Aziraphale accepted the offer with a small murmur of thanks. “Don’t be surprised if they skip a formal hearing and jump straight to the extinction part.” 

“You don’t think they’ll give you a trial?” 

Crowley shuts that brief spate of optimism down with nothing more than a look. The angel supposes it is Hell after all, and he shouldn’t be surprised at the rather cut-throat nature of their operation. 

They had relocated to the demons startlingly sparse kitchen in order to have this discussion and the other was lounging carelessly against a countertop nursing his own drink as they spoke. It was the kind of sprawl he never thought he would witness on his own form, all limbs and sharp edges. A casual splay that indicated the person was at ease. 

It wasn’t all that it appeared, though, as fingers tapped impatiently against glass and teeth gnawed thoughtlessly on a bottom lip. No matter what he was putting into the world, Crowley was nervous. 

“Crowley?” He ventured cautiously.

“Yes, angel?” 

“We won’t get stuck like this, will we?” 

Crowley sputtered for a second, various beginnings to words that never found fruition, and then the demon was laughing. Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale would likely demand to know what was so funny about his perfectly reasonable question.

But in this instance, the question was not a reasonable one, not at all. 

Some people made the assumption that Aziraphale was clever, but slow on the uptake. They made this assumption based on various factors; his incapability with modern technology, or his limited understanding of slang outside of what he learned in the 1800s. He also tended to be found next to Crowley, whose mind moved faster than his Bentley likely ever could; jumping from one idea to the next without a breath in between. 

The truth of the matter was that Aziraphale was very clever, he just happened to take his time moving from point to point in any given consideration. 

Crowley can look at a problem and suggest solutions, often inspired ones, but his thought process tends to end there. This is the same demon who was clever enough to avoid committing truly heinous acts by instead inflicting low-level inconveniences on the world, the very same demon who failed to consider how these inconveniences would affect him also. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was not always so quick-minded to see an immediate solution, but he was more than capable of extrapolating a multitude of factors that play into any idea the demon has. He may not have been the one to say _maybe we should have an arrangement_ but he had definitely been the one to offer terms and conditions to the arrangement.

It was part of the reason they worked so wonderfully together, he supposed, and by now it had become the norm for an initial suggestion from the demon to be immediately followed by an expectant look towards Aziraphale to fill out the details. Separately their escapades may never succeed, but together they had the formula for well-rounded planning. 

Take this exact situation. Swapping faces was a stroke of genius, and certainly solves the problem they were presented with. The angel knows he may not have been able to come up with such a solution himself. But after succeeding in that part it was Aziraphale insisting they address the various outcomes of the following day.

All this planning had left Crowley lost in his own head, which was always a hazard when he was forced to consider hell and other demons in too much detail. 

Thankfully Aziraphale was an expert in coaxing his demon into a more amenable mood. Distraction typically worked wonders, especially if said distraction was to put Crowley in a position where he could be the one who had the answers. Even feeling a little in control was a relief to him. It was a tried and true trick the angel had picked up over the years. 

If Crowley felt lost he became static. 

So despite his logical mind telling him they would absolutely be able to switch back. It was after all similar to a glamour, Crowley had said. Aziraphale still asked the redundant question because it offered the demon a chance to claw his way from a pit of uncertainty and hang onto his much-needed control. 

It had the desired effect. 

The previously drumming digits had stopped their beat. The laughter was nothing more than a breathless chuckle now but it was enough to have relieved tension in the other. His physicality seemed looser, more open. 

The look he shot Aziraphale was something knowing. “You already know the answer to that question.”

“I simply can't imagine what you mean.” He aimed for innocence but think he may miss the mark, given the softening of Crowley’s expression. 

It was a fascinating dynamic they held. Neither of them ever truly knew what they were doing, and yet they both dipped in and out of the role as comforter and guide so often, he wasn't really sure who was supposed to be the one in charge at any given moment. The pair of them were more than aware of it, too. They thrived on it. 

Aziraphale was just as likely to lean on Crowley for what he needed as he was to offer it for him. 

And even if he would never admit it aloud, Aziraphale knew Crowley appreciated the obvious attempt at reassurance. 

“We’ll be able to swap back whenever we choose, angel, don’t worry.” 

Aziraphale offered up his alcohol-filled glass in an attempt at a toast, though really what was appropriate to toast at a moment like this? Saving the world, perhaps. The hope of success in their endeavours. 

The rest of eternity just like this? That felt like tempting fate. 

Regardless, Crowley didn’t even hesitate, clinking his glass with the angels in silence. Their own respective toasts remained private. The scotch was swallowed down in one burning gulp. 

Since realising the success of their swap, they had posed various outcomes for the day to come. Aziraphale had offered what he knew about heavens practices for Crowley and the demon had afforded him the same courtesy. 

The logical conclusion was that each side was likely to be bringing them back to headquarters to be _dealt with._ Thus they had posited that come the morning, Crowley should leave the flat and head back to Aziraphale’s bookshop; as the angel heartily insisted this is what he would do under normal circumstances. 

They would continue their routines as one another- Crowley’s facetious suggestion that Aziraphale should simply take a nap (because that’s what _he_ would do) had not been taken seriously- and meet in St James’ at one o’clock provided they had not already been snatched by their operatives by then. 

It was as much of a plan as they could afford, as the movements of other celestial beings were largely unpredictable. Their only certainty in this whole thing was their commitment to each other and by extension the commitment to _being_ each other. 

That in itself had been a rather amusing pastime of the evening. Filled with both beings correcting the other on a wide array of characteristics. Aziraphale had insisted Crowley’s tendency towards crass language was not angelic in the slightest, and Crowley was adamant no demon worth their salt would ever be found with _good posture._

Still, confidence in the act was one thing, actually pulling it off was a whole different problem. 

Crowley was gnawing on his lip again.

“Stop that.” Aziraphale scolds gently. His newfound confidence allows him to reach up and take careful hold of the others chin. After all, was there really anything holding him back now? “You’re going to return my face to me chewed raw.” 

Crowley appears to completely freeze at the contact. He doesn’t say anything, but the lip seems safe. With a strained smile, Aziraphale takes his hand back for fear of having overstepped the mark. 

His affection for Crowley hadn’t exactly been something he was open about these past years, he knows. He buried it away in the back of his mind for many reasons, the all-seeing eye of heaven is one of them, but it was also a common belief that Demons couldn’t reciprocate such… feelings. 

Though, it had always been angels telling him such things. 

Tonight marked the end of Aziraphale’s service to heaven, so he could theoretically devote himself to _this_. He was, quite clearly, not stupid. Neither was he blind to his friend's own acts of affection. Crowley may not say what he means but he can’t help himself but show it. 

Since initiating contact on the bus, Aziraphale lost count of how many times Crowley reached for his hand without thinking tonight. It was almost as if once given permission the demon felt validated enough to continue an action he was previously denying himself. 

Then there was everything in the past six thousand years that the angel had definitely noticed, but hadn’t been quite ready to accept the meaning of until much later. A suffering play suddenly made famous, a collection of books pulled from the rubble of a church, a stain miracled from a coat. At some point, and Aziraphale could probably give you the exact year, he came to the conclusion that friendship was no longer an appropriate term for what Aziraphale felt… but it was also not appropriate for what Crowley was presenting him with, either. 

And yet they still didn’t talk about it. 

Yes, heaven was a sticking point, and Crowley knew that. He was a constant in that he was open with what he offered, but he was never explicit. He put things out there and left them for the angel to acknowledge or dismiss. It was almost always the latter if he was honest. 

Now that being an angel wasn’t his main concern, what happened? Somehow tonight did not feel like the right time to broach that topic. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks instead, reverting back to safer territory. 

Crowley snaps out of his silent state, puffing a breath of air out between his lips. “Considering the circumstances? I could be worse.” 

“Do you feel prepared?” 

“What kind of question is that?” The demon raises one mocking eyebrow at him. 

A resigned smile. “A completely superfluous one given the sun is rising and there is very little time for us to remedy anything.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley promised. “If in doubt I’ll start babbling about the ineffable plan or the greater good.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but it is a fond thing. “And as long as you don’t give yourself away with your walk, you will also be fine.” 

“My dear, your hips are ridiculous and I will not be held responsible for their actions.” He pointedly plants one hand on said hips. “They’re very suited to a serpent.” 

The laugh Crowley responds with is breathy and soft, but it still makes Aziraphale's chest tighten. He casts his gaze out of the large window and watches the pinkish tones of the sky change colour with the rising of the sun. They used to do this all the time together, back in the day. The pair of them drinking under the stars until dawn came and brought with it the cold feeling of being _watched._

This doesn’t feel like that. 

“Afterwards, where shall I find you?” The demon asks, his voice tender like he is afraid of shattering something. 

Aziraphale hums in thought, his eyes stay on the sunrise. Their very own brightly lit countdown. “Our usual meeting spot should be fine, don’t you think?” 

“The bench?” 

“Yes, dear. The bench.” 

They stay in silence, Crowley has made quick work of the last few inches between them so shoulders meet as they observe the morning. Those inquisitive fingertips brush over the back Aziraphale’s hand, but they don’t make a move further. The barest kiss of skin seems to be enough. 

Time has always felt a little differently for them, so it doesn’t feel like much at all before the day has arrived with full force. The sounds of the earth, still the same as it was yesterday thanks to them, begin to echo outside. 

It’s time for Crowley to go, and it all at once feels like a goodbye that Aziraphale isn’t ready for. 

His fists clench by his sides. Hesitation lingers in the air. Neither of them are entirely sure what to do; what is the etiquette here? That is until Aziraphale says to _hell_ with it all and strides into the demon’s space; despite the urgent nature of his movement the hand on the back of Crowley’s neck is gentle, he presses their foreheads together and holds his breath. 

It’s all the permission Crowley needed, hands settle on his shoulders and grip with the strength of a man also hesitant to go. 

Aziraphale cups Crowley’s jaw with one hand, now emboldened his thumb brushes a cheekbone tenderly. The fingers poised at the nape of his neck are twisting in his own blonde curls, but their eyes have drifted closed and it was just as easy to forget they were in one another’s body. 

They stand like that perhaps too long, and yet not long enough at all. 

It’s Crowley that starts to move away first, a breath of an apology on his lips. Palms trail from shoulders down the angel's arms until he can take his hands in his own. He gives one decisive squeeze and steps away. 

They don’t have to say anything because it’s clear. It’s not just a goodbye, or a see you later, it’s a plea; _please find your way back to me._

Crowley removes himself from the embrace and without another thought turns to head out of the door. Just before he disappears, he pauses, turns back to the angel with words on his tongue. He looks hesitant and Aziraphale could swear that time has stopped around them. What Aziraphale does not expect is the demons call of, “Don’t forget the glasses when you go.”

It still makes him smile, though. Because sometimes, saying what you _actually_ mean is just giving away too much of yourself in one go.

So he nods, Crowley nods back, and then he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I simply couldn't stop thinking about how that night must have went for them, and thus this was born. 
> 
> Next chapter will take place after the conclusion of the show, so we'll officially be branching off into future endeavours! 
> 
> My Tumblrs, come bug me if you like:  
> @hellfireandbookshops  
> @Crazy-mad-insane


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